


Who Came Out of Left Field?

by Nehszriah



Series: Who's in Baseball? [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Americanisms, MLB AU, baseball AU, less channeling of Malcolm and more channeling of canon!12, sports AU, tons of cameos--hence the character list
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Who's On First'; Clara Oswald, hot-shot GM of the first-year Quad City Gallifreyans, and John Smith, the oft-cantankerous manager, are now officially a couple. What will this unique relationship bring to the table and how long will it last? [MLB baseball Whouffaldi AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to "Who's on First?", a three-part fic I wrote last summer, pre-s8 (and only recently posted on here). It exists to be the most random Whouffaldi AU you'll probably read: Twelve and Clara help run a Major League Baseball team. Yup. This sequel happened because I got a few prompts for it on my writing tumblr recently and all of a sudden oops I had enough interest in a sequel to justify it. You can try reading this without reading the original if you want, but reading in-order is recommended for full effect.

"So… you two are now a thing?" Jack asked, leaning on the doorjamb to Clara's office. The marketing guru, while not surprised by any means, had certainly expected it to take a bit longer than half a season for the two to "hook up", as he put it. "Do you _realize_ what sort of trouble this puts me into?"

"What John and I do shouldn't be of any concern to you," Clara said flatly, attempting to ignore her visitor. She had to get back on the ball, and quickly, if she wanted to make sure she cleared the trade deadline at the end of the month. All she wanted to do was make sure she didn't cock up her first official season as a general manager and it was becoming increasingly difficult with all the curious coworkers popping in on her.

"Let me think about that for a second: _it does_." He folded his arms, as if to emphasize his point. "I've got an entire persona for John centered around a grumpy, aloof, dark and brooding man, but add a cute and tiny girlfriend such as yourself and the menace is suddenly gone." He exhaled, not noticing the tall, lanky figure that snuck up behind him.

"Harkness, don't you have an intern to shag?" the Doctor scowled. The other man jumped in surprise.

"Aren't _you_ a riot at parties?" Jack frowned. He then turned to Clara before heading out. "Still not sure if the personality is outweighed by the looks, but your choice, not mine." Slinking off down the hall, he attempted to put as much distance between himself and the manager as possible; he wouldn't risk being a fly on their wall for _anything_.

Once Jack was out of earshot, the Doctor stepped into Clara's office and closed the door nearly all the way. "How are you coming along? Coordinating any trades I should know about?"

"Not really—everyone's been doing well enough, and if they haven't then the farm system gave us good replacements," she replied. "I think after the deadline and things have settled down, I might shuffle around some players in the minors, but not now. We're doing alright for a first-year team. I don't think anyone's expecting another Diamondbacks out of us, but things are looking up."

"I love it when you talk baseball like you've grown up around it," he smirked, sitting down in the chair across from her. "It's incredibly attractive, I hope you know."

"Save your pleasantries for the press tonight; we've got a couple bats that aren't producing and if you go off in the middle of a game again it won't be pretty." Clara chuckled at the man sitting in front of her; with his two-day beard and uncombed hair, he seemed a scruffy, fluffy, stick-like hobo of a man that she… honestly wanted to shut the door and then slam him up against the wooden surface. Pretending to cough, she shook the thought from her mind. It's time for business, Clara Oswald. Pleasure came _after_ the season closed.

"Well, now that depends on whether or not the bats wake up in time or not," he replied, seemingly ignoring the eyes that had just been made at him. "Alright, going to start lurking in the dungeon and earn my keep. Need me to keep my eye on anyone?"

"Me," she smirked. The smallest smile appeared on his face before he stood up and leaned over the desk. Planting his hands on either side of her notebook computer, he kissed her steadily, chuckling when he finally pulled back.

"Don't wait up for me—I think it's going to be a long day at the office," he joked. He wiggled his eyebrows and left the office, allowing his girlfriend of all of three days to wonder if she was even going to make it to the end of the season.

* * *

It was a sweep. The Gallifreyans had their first sweep of the season, the first sweep of their existence. For other teams, winning three games in a row against the same team should not have been much cause to celebrate, but considering it was well after the All-Star Break and the Yankees weren't even having a bad stretch, they would gladly take it. The bats were alive, fielding was solid, a couple runners were picked off, and pitching was amazingly on-point. There hadn't even been any no-decisions, which was good on the individual records, and the only way it could have been _better_ is with a no-hitter or two. Maybe a perfect game, but they weren't particularly greedy.

The media had all left and the players were mostly gone for the night when Clara knocked softly on the open door to the Doctor's office, leaning up against the painted-blue surface to look at him.

"Hey," she said. He glanced up from his computer and gave her a short smile.

"Hey. How were the boys tonight from your angle?"

"It's looks like they've been taking Dad's vague threats seriously." She sat down in the spare chair he kept in the office and crossed her legs, folding her hands over her knees. "Anything I need to know about amongst the ranks as the deadline's coming up?"

"Can we trade Harkness?" the Doctor asked, his face one of dead-seriousness. Clara burst into laughter and nearly doubled-over.

"No, I don't think we can trade our marketing guru," she giggled. "I meant the players. Anyone itching to go?"

"Not really—you don't really know, but the end of July makes players, managers, and fans alike rather skittish." After locking his eyes on his work, he tapped a couple keys and began clicking through stuff on the unseen computer monitor screen rapidly. "This is _your_ time to essentially make or break the team. Whatever you do, there will have been worse deadline deals."

"You're just saying that…"

"You've got a brain and it's not made of pudding, so therefore, I can assure you that there have been worse moves, even if you make no move at all." The Doctor then stopped with his obsessive clicking and glanced over at Clara. "Hey, it's Wednesday."

"Yeah, and…?"

"You eaten yet?"

"Of course I have!" she frowned. "I'm not some kid you have to look after."

"Well, it _is_ Wednesday, and I don't have any cookies or a pantry of stuff to make," he replied. As if almost on-cue, Clara's grumbling stomach cut her off from arguing against him. She closed her mouth and scrunched her nose in embarrassment. "Don't worry—I've got you." The Doctor whipped out his cell phone and dialed a number, applying a flat Midwestern American accent to his voice as the other end picked up. "Hey, Mike? It's Johnny—yeah, Johnny Fever. Listen, can I have the usual, but make it a double order? I got company at the office." He paused and nodded in affirmation, even if the Mike fellow couldn't see. "In twenty? Thanks—same spot." He then swiped the phone off and dropped it down triumphantly on the desk.

"What did you get?" she wondered.

"Food," he stated in full-Scots, twitching his mouth into a grin. "I'd suggest going up to your office to eat it, but there conveniently aren't any cameras in this area."

"John! What is _wrong_ with you?!" Clara laughed, too amused to be offended. The tips of the Doctor's ears went red and he stood up to roll his desk chair over to the other side so that he was next to her.

"Thought that, maybe, we could make it a date," he explained. "You know… our first official one. It's not Wrigley, but will the inner bowels of the TARDIS do?"

"I think that'd be nice," she answered. "Question though: do you want to keep work out of date-time discussion completely or only when we're _in_ the TARDIS or only during the season?"

"That seems to be a situational bylaw," the Doctor chuckled. "So, tell me, how are you liking the banks of the Mississippi compared those of the Thames and the Wyre? Able to find things to your liking?"

"I didn't grow up near the Wyre—you just found the nearest river to Blackpool on Wikipedia," Clara deadpanned.

"Well, you know, close enough for a school trip, yeah?"

"I think you've forgotten how things are sized in the UK, Mister 'I Haven't Been Back Home Since the Seventies'. You really need to work on that, or next time you go back Susan will be carrying you in a jar."

"Och, ouch," he cringed, knowing full-well she was mostly correct. "Do you treat all your dates like this?"

"Only the dense ones," she replied.

The Doctor put the radio on and they talked over his favorite country-western station for a while ("there's too much Scots in rural Americana for that fiddling to have come from nowhere") and eventually he went to collect their dinner whilst flinging a variety of choice phrases, such as "go the fuck home" and "one word out of you Kurt and you'll be _begging_ to get optioned for your birthday". He returned not too long after with two Styrofoam carry-out containers and two large paper cups filled with coffee.

"Here you are," he said, putting their late-night dinner down on the desk and pecking her on the cheek. "A farmer's omelette, French fries instead of hash browns, and a generous helping of coffee to wash it down."

Opening up her container, Clara found a lump of grey, gooey, gravy smothering what she assumed was her omelette. She took the plastic fork and knife that the Doctor had passed her way and cut into the mass—that was fluffy egg alright, with all sorts of bits of things in it. Ham, bacon, onion, green peppers, sausage crumbles, mushrooms, and a cheese that was a violent shade of yellow-orange.

"This is an omelette?" she asked her date. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and nodded.

"Go ahead—try it."

"I'm never going to be able to finish all of it."

"You may be five-foot-one, but you can pack away more food than a lard-ass closer," he snickered. Clara lightly punched him on the arm and took a French fry instead; not bad for some late-night (and presumably) greasy spoon diner. Not bad for a first date either.

* * *

"You took off your ring."

"Hmm?"

Clara picked up the Doctor's left hand and examined it in the fading evening light. They were sitting in her office, eating a different meal of omelettes and French fries, and going over the game they had just played earlier in the day. "I don't think I've ever seen you without your ring. Is it being cleaned?"

"No… I took it off when we decided to date—thought it was a bit more appropriate to be seen with you if I don't have a ring on," he explained. "Don't want nasty rumors flying around about us that aren't true. We are both rather on the virtuous side of things."

"I think as long as we're not having a rough shag during the seventh inning stretch, things will be fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes. The Doctor gently removed his hand from hers and cupped her jaw, bringing her in for a kiss.

"They'd need proof," he chortled once they parted.

"Is that a challenge?" Clara asked, lips curling into a grin.

"No—I'm just saying they'd need proof to accuse us of something, and if I'm not wearing a ring, then the divorce papers look a bit more legitimate."

"You've been divorced for decades and there's photographic evidence you've been wearing the ring since," she noted. "What happens if that's brought up?"

"I tell the truth: it kept distractions away. You're not a distraction, Clara," he said lowly. "Trust me, I've had distractions and you're far from them."

"I'm honored," she replied. Taking a fry, she did her best to eat it seductively, though poked herself in the nose with it instead. "Oh, cock."

"Oooh, say that again," the Doctor laughed. "You make the English sound so good."

She shoved a French fry in his face instead.

* * *

Public. Clara found herself out in _public_ with the Doctor doing something not related to work for the first time, well, ever. They were simply shopping for groceries, but it seemed almost scandalous.

"This feels weird," she said as she edged the cart over to the side of the aisle so others could get through. "I never thought you _didn't_ go shopping, because otherwise you'd just have takeaway all the time, but seeing you in a store is just…"

"Oh for fuck's sake they're out of digestives," the Doctor growled at the empty space on the shelf. "I find them here _once_ and each time I come back there's always an empty space. Why do I even bother?"

"I thought you got digestive biscuits _shipped_ _to_ _you_ ," Clara deadpanned, the nervousness melting away into exasperation as per usual. "Isn't that the point? Not needing to look for them in the store?"

"You're missing the point—it's the principle of the thing. Why have a spot on the shelf that _says_ 'digestive biscuits' when you never have them in-stock?"

"How about this: you keep on mourning your lack of digestives, which are frankly the third-most disgusting biscuit to ever come out of Scotland, and I'll go look for actually-palatable things… such as the steak you promised to grill for dinner two weeks ago."

"That was Jones-Mackey's fault for twisting his ankle and me needing to go in to rework the lineup for the road trip and you know it," he scowled as she walked away, taking the cart with her.

Walking up to the cold case with the meats, Clara began to compare the prices of the various cuts of steak that laid before her. With the various price points and thicknesses and types, she wasn't sure what to get. The market had been the closest one to the Doctor's house, therefore not the one she usually frequented, so her instincts were all off. She held two different packages and scrunched her nose, thinking her choices through.

"We'll get this one," the Doctor said from behind her. He reached around and plucked a package off the shelf, holding it in front of the other two. "This is the kind I grilled the last time."

"…but those are so _big_."

"Welcome to America, my dear, where the stomachs are bred to be as vast as the skies above." Clara shifted slightly and found her shoulder pressing against his chest. She turned her head slightly, discovering that she could smell his cologne.

"Can you put it in the cart, please?" she asked. The Doctor quickly stepped away and she was able to put the other steaks back before turning so that she could push the shopping cart again. Clara smirked at her boyfriend—which was still a really weird thing to think of him as, all things considered—and allowed him to follow as she went towards the chicken. "What about tomorrow? It's a day game, so we can have another nice night in."

"With you, Clara, every night in is a nice one," he replied. She bit her bottom lip and attempted not to blush. Being out in public was _dangerous_.

* * *

"Okay, so what on _Earth_ possessed you to think this is a viable situation?" the Doctor asked, completely baffled. Wind howled outside and he and Clara were curled up side-by-side on the couch, her statistics binder sitting on both their laps. "There's no way we can make it to the playoffs, even in a Wild Card slot. It can't be done."

"I didn't say it was _bankable_ , but it's a possibility," Clara huffed. "A _lot_ would have to happen—the division would essentially have to disintegrate, but we're still not completely locked out."

"I'll give you that we're not locked out, but it's a _long shot_ and the boys all know it." He scowled down his nose and looked at his general manager. "Don't sugar-coat it; does more harm than good in this line of work. These are grown men, not kids."

"I understand that, just… forget it," she muttered. She was about to continue when the lights flickered and died. "Umm… what was that?"

"The storm," the Doctor grumbled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stood up and fumbled around until he found a kitchen cupboard that contained a flashlight. Shining it around, he began unplugging various devices in the house. "Generators were on back-order last time I checked so unfortunately we're done for the night—don't know how long it'll be out."

Lightning flashed and a clap of thunder boomed overhead, making the house shake. "Oh!" Clara gasped. "Are storms usually this bad?"

"They can be." Once he was done unplugging his television, the Doctor held out the flashlight towards Clara. "Go on; you can have the bed."

"…but shouldn't I go before the storm gets worse?"

"It'll likely get all sorts of things during your drive, so I feel better knowing you're in a safe place," he replied. From the glow of the storm, she could see that the tips of his ears were red. "It's fine—the couch is good enough for me."

"We're _adults_ though… adults who are _seeing one another_ … I don't think anyone would blame us for sharing a bed."

"I just…" The Doctor frowned, trying to formulate how to phrase things. "I didn't realize I was on the market—gotta work my way up to those sorts of things, you know?"

"It's _sleeping_ , nothing more," Clara insisted. She held out her hand and waited for him to take it. "I don't want to be up there alone."

"That's a bald-faced fucking lie and you know it," he scoffed. He took her hand, however, allowing her to lead him through his own house. They went up the stairs and to his bedroom, which was just as sparse and gloomy as the rest of the place. After fetching another flashlight from the closet, the Doctor gave Clara one so she could change into a spare set of his pajamas in the bathroom while he continued his unplugging electronics agenda. When he came back, he found her standing by the bed in the oversized Gallifreyans t-shirt and baggy basketball shorts he loaned her, looking terribly lopsided.

"Everything alright?" she asked.

"Yeah. Just get comfortable, okay?" The Doctor retreated to the bathroom, changed out of his own day clothes, and left them on the tile floor as he tried to sneak out the bedroom without Clara seeing him. He was nearly at the hallway when her flashlight shone on him.

"Nuh-uh; get back here," she ordered. "There's less of a chance an axe murder will get us if we stick together. That's what the weather's perfect for."

"Do I need to tell Foreman he was forced to hire a control freak?"

"I'm fairly certain he's figured that out by now." She pat the empty part of the bed and waited for him to come over. Once he was under the covers and laying down, Clara turned her flashlight off and latched onto the Doctor, pressing up against his back.

"Do we have to do this?" he murmured into his pillow.

" _Yes_ , now shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Scribbling on her printout, Clara made an adjustment to her stats page for a pitcher before replacing it in her binder. With a couple more seasons under her belt, she could ask Susan if there would be a way for her to hire an assistant, to help streamline the process, but for now she was content with doing everything on her own. It helped her to become as familiar with the game as possible in the short amount of time she had. There were sometimes weeks where she felt like she knew everything, then some where it was as if she was still fresh from Heathrow and couldn't tell a home run from a ground rule double.

As soon as her papers were in order the computer made a noise that prompted her to check her email. While doing so, Clara noticed that the door to her office opened slightly. She glanced out the corner of her eye, pretending to not notice, and saw a tiny figure bounce his way over to her desk. The little boy hid in front of her, right out of her line of vision, giggling triumphantly.

"Hmm… I wonder what that noise is," Clara chuckled. Another giggle and she stood up, tip-toeing her way around her desk. "Is… it… Ricardo?" She finally caught the child, who had sat down so he faced the door, with his smile hiding behind his hands. When he saw her, he scrambled to his feet and ran to give her a hug. "Now why aren't you with your dad?"

"He wanted me to stay with Sammy and Maya, but they're not very fun," he said. "I tried to go visit Work Grandpa, but he's still busy and shouty and shakes me off his leg."

"Well, sometimes he's not the easiest person to deal with," she replied, eternally amused at the Doctor's unofficial title. She offered him a candy from the dish on her desk and sat down on the floor next to him while he ate it. "All you need to do is figure out what makes people listen to you. Everyone responds to something different, and someone can live to be eighty and still not understand how to do that."

"Wow… okay." Ricardo balled up his candy wrapper and stuffed it in his pants pocket. "I heard that you make him listen by kissing him now. Do you think that'd make him listen to me?"

"No, I think it might make him a little bit skittish," Clara laughed. "He doesn't have kids, so he doesn't understand."

"If he's Work Grandpa though, does that make you Work Grandma?" the boy asked. He scrunched his face in thought, pondering particularly hard on the notion. "You're kinda young to be a grandma."

"This is true, but I'm not too young to be an aunt," she offered. "We can be your Work Aunt and Uncle."

"…but grandpas are older than uncles, and the guys that play with dad are Work Uncles," he reasoned. "This is all very confusing." To emphasize his point, he folded his arms and nodded resolutely—his logic was _sound_.

"…but what if you had a _great-uncle_?" she asked. "Those can be as old as a grandpa, but they're still called 'uncle'."

"Yes! That's it!" Ricardo gasped happily. "He's my W _ork Grunkle_!"

Clara simply shrugged in reply. "Sure…? I guess, if the term 'grunkle' is a thing." The boy hugged her and dashed out of the room, suddenly full of energy again. Clara then went back to her chair and began scrolling through her email again. She wasn't too far along when suddenly she heard a familiar grumble at her opened office door.

"Clara, _help_ ," the Doctor muttered. She glanced up and saw him slouching in the doorway, Ricardo having catapulted himself up to the man's waist and latched on for dear life. Snickering, she came over and gently removed the overly-affectionate child and brought her boyfriend's face down for a light kiss.

"Ahh, Work Aunt and Grunkle," Ricardo sighed. He spread his arms wide and grabbed onto an arm from each adult, bringing them in for a hug. Clara beamed, while the Doctor, well, he only hugged Clara back, and that was it.

* * *

"Would you like to come up?"

The Doctor almost white-knuckled the steering wheel, unsure of how to answer. They were currently idling in an empty space in the parking lot of Clara's apartment building, the night game the Gallifreyans just got demolished in having run longer than normal thanks to a rain delay that affected the start time. It was beginning to sprinkle again, water dotting the windshield of the car.

"…but I don't have anything with me," he said, hoping it would be a solid-enough argument. When it came to Clara Oswald, however, it was not.

"I have a bunch of team apparel that Susan sent my way and in a couple cases it's a bit bigger than a true fit," she said. "Come on—it won't be that bad. I'll feel better knowing you're not driving out in the rain on unlit roads"

"You got me there," he admitted. The Doctor turned off the car and the two of them entered the building together. It was eight units, modest, and cheerfully decorated on the inside in the halls. Clara lived in number four, on the second floor, where there was the Blackpool F.C. crest hanging by a nail on the door.

Walking into the apartment, the Doctor wasn't sure if there was any place more suited to Clara in the entire world. Unlike his house, which felt sparse in some parts even after he settled in, this was cozy and warm and packed with things that made it feel lived in. Her dining area was more a library, with second-hand bookcases lining the walls that were filled to the brim with everything from Victorian literature to baseball encyclopedias. Her living room was similarly set up, with DVDs and Blurays taking the place of paperbacks and heavy tomes. Slipping out of her shoes, Clara went over to the kitchen area, still visible over the serving bar.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked. "I have some nice chamomile that usually hits the spot."

"I don't want to be trouble," he replied as he took his own shoes off.

"You're not, really. If you can make me _dinner_ , then I think I can at least make you some tea." She had a point—twice in a row now. Hopefully she wasn't keeping track.

"Chamomile sounds nice then," he said. Clara put the water on to boil and went down the short hallway, vanishing behind a door. She came back shortly after, holding a bundle of clothes that she offered to the Doctor.

"Here, put these on and by the time you're done the kettle should be done. Would you rather shower tonight or in the morning?"

"Uhh…" That felt an awful lot like a trick question. "Morning."

"Then I'll shower tonight," she said, returning to the kitchen.

While she milled about, the Doctor timidly began to explore the doors in the inner hallway of the apartment. One was a closet, the one she came out of was assumed to be her bedroom, and the third door was the bathroom. He went in and did his business, changing into the blue Gallifreyans-emblazoned t-shirt and shorts afterwards. The entire bathroom smelled heavily of citrusy… _something_ and powder and other girly things. After investigating the shower stall (the citrus was her body wash _and_ shampoo-conditioner), he folded his clothes and brought them out to the living room, where Clara was curled up on the couch with a mug of steaming tea in-hand.

"Took you long enough," she teased. "Come on—have a seat." The Doctor set his clothes down on the couch arm and picked up the spare mug sitting on the coffee table before sitting down. It was extra-sweet, as he liked it, and had a bit of milk in it as well.

"I haven't had milk in my tea in ages," he chuckled. "I used to have this all the time as a kid." Taking a second sip, he leaned back and sighed, nodding slightly. "Tastes the same."

"Is it a good taste or a bad taste?" she wondered.

"Good, definitely," he replied. He left it at that, knowing he didn't want to get into a long, complicated story with Clara that night. "I'm sorry, but this old man feels a bit sore after all that walking to the mound I had to do, so I'm probably not good company."

"It was the tracks you dug walking to the mound or the theatrical flailing during one of your patented bollockings?"

"A bit of both." They finished their tea and Clara showed the Doctor to her room. She fished some pajamas of her own out of the dresser and pecked her boyfriend on the cheek before going into the bathroom herself, the water turning on not too long after.

' _Do I wait up, or go to sleep?_ ' he wondered. The Doctor pulled back the bedding—flower-print sheets and a knit bedspread—and settled himself in. Clara had a lot of pillows, so he took one and set his head on it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply—this was the _most_ Clara-space out of the entire apartment. It was comforting, inviting, and, though it was an odd thing to think, smelled the most like her. The citrus was there, yeah, but there was also books, papers, the smell of peanuts and roasted almonds. Something else was there that he tried concentrating on as he relaxed into the mattress… Earl Grey tea. Of course; she did like to have that at teatime.

He was almost asleep, sound of the rain beating down on the metal awnings lulling him gently, when the bedroom door opened and closed, the bed soon shifting and a pair of arms sliding around him. "You alright?"

"Yeah. See you in the morning."

"Okay."

The Doctor knew that Jaime, as well as no less than eleven players, would tease him the following day for coming into work smelling like Clara, but for once, he really didn't care.

* * *

It was an average afternoon at the clubhouse, with things having a general air of normalcy as various players were there for their pre-game workouts and for the most part hanging out. The peace was disrupted, however, when their tiny general manager burst through the doors, sending more than a couple of the athletes scrambling for cover (and to cover themselves).

" _John Why-Weren't-You-Given-A-Bloody-Middle-Name Smith_ , have you gone **_daft_**?!" Clara snarled. She stormed over to his office, where he was talking with the bench coach, and stood lividly in the doorway. "How come I go online to look something up and I find _several_ articles saying that you've gone on-record saying that _I_ _ **manage**_ _better than I_ _ **kiss**_?!"

"Okay, first off: my middle name is Shea. Second: I never said anything of the sort," he defended. "I might have said _something_ about how my girlfriend can manage like nobody's damn business _and_ she can kiss to boot, but consider that a fuck-up on the journalists' behalf."

"You're a load of crock and **_fix this!_** " she demanded. "I don't care if you have to address it after tonight's game or get Jaime to do something or _what_ , but set it straight! And to think we were supposed to be _discreet_ about this! Discreet but not hiding, that's what you said, so now you fix it!" She then stomped out of the clubhouse as angrily as she arrived.

"…your middle name is Shea…?" Jimmy marveled. The Doctor rolled his eyes and groaned, drawing his hands over his face.

"No; it's a nigh-pronounceable Scottish name that's merely _spelled_ 'Shea'," he lied. He then leaned back in his chair, projecting his voice into the main of the clubhouse. "Alright, which one of you pudding-brains did it?"

"It was Kanzaka!" laughed a voice.

"No it wasn't! It was Marc! Don't listen! I've said nothing but _good_ about Miss Oswald!"

The Doctor slumped in his chair and took a deep breath—it was really like managing a team full of children, or at least that's what he figured.

* * *

"Will you stop preening over me?" the Doctor growled. He slouched within Clara's grasp while they watched a movie at her place. With her sitting up and he leaned into her with his feet on the cushions, they took up the entire couch easily. Now she had one hand playing with his hair and the other resting on his chest.

"Why'd you get your hair cut so short?" she asked. "It looks much _nicer_ when it's a little longer."

"I was risking needing a bigger cap size based on my hair alone, so it was time for a trim," he argued grumpily. There was something about Clara's apartment that made him always on-edge, like he couldn't truly be at home there. He turned his face, squishing his nose against her midsection, and mumbled.

"Pardon?" she teased.

"It's just hair," he repeated into her stomach, raising his voice.

"Heh; how about if we get some sleep then, yeah? We can't let ourselves get lazy because we're in the home stretch."

Reluctantly agreeing, the Doctor turned the movie off and they both went to Clara's bedroom. There she changed into her pajamas and he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. Climbing into bed, he laid down so that she could contour along his back, wrapping her arms around his middle and leaving a light kiss on his neck.

"Goodnight, John," she murmured.

"Night," he echoed, touching the hands clasped around him. The Doctor allowed himself to slip towards abstract dreams of people and places from far away and long ago… or was it far ago and long away? Either way, it seemed as just as he was getting started, he was awoken as Clara was rubbing her face in his hair, half-awake and humming contently.

"Nice…" she repeated, over and over again.

"What's nice?" he asked, looking out the window. Daytime, but overcast.

"When it's messy like this," she replied. "Short has its perks."

"I'd be willing to say that about someone I know," he chuckled. Rolling them both over, the Doctor rested his head on her shoulder, carefully listening to the heartbeat not that far from him. "I'm in the same bed as a five-foot-one, monomaniacal control freak, and I don't want to leave."

"I am _not_ a monomaniacal control freak," she insisted, instantly waking up. "I'll have you know that I delegate _plenty_ of decisions to others."

"Of course you do," he agreed. Carefully letting one hand rest along the curve of her waist, he closed his eyes and took in the moment.

* * *

It was a week after the Gallifreyans' inaugural season came to a close. While they weren't "closing up shop" so to speak, the offices were winding down and cutting back to just the skeleton crew that would be needed in the off-season, leaving much of the suites empty. The season had been a general success: a couple of games above .500 and respectable attendance numbers had been more than the staff had hoped for their first year out. Clara was inspecting her office, attempting to figure out what to leave and what to take back to her apartment, when the Doctor snuck in behind her, scooping her up in his arms and twirling around as he gave her a hug.

"Oh!" she gasped, half giggling. "Put me _down_!"

"I just wanted to let you know that I booked our tickets and we're headed off to Scotland in one week," he murmured into her hair. The Doctor put Clara down and let her turn to face him.

"We're going during the playoffs? What about watching all the player footage? Our jobs aren't _done_ -done," she asked, boggled out of her mind. "I thought you said we were going to spend two weeks there!"

"That we are—I'm not worried, Clara. They make highlight reels for a reason," he replied. "There's highlight reels, and access to video of every game that gets played, without commercials, and if we're lucky every series will be decided in four or five games."

"That would depend on an enormous amount of luck that I think ran dry when we finished the season with a winning record and you staying in more games than I first expected," she snarked. She chuckled happily as he held her face and bent down for a kiss, which she reciprocated while trailing her arms across his chest. Months ago she had come to the conclusion that he was just waiting for the end of the season to get overtly physical, and taking a vacation together would be the perfect opportunity to begin. They then parted, causing her to switch back subjects. "So, where do you have planned for us to go?"

"I was thinking Edinburgh, the Highlands, some castles, wherever they have the best haggis, you know, be proper tourists and get in all that sort of shit."

"Not Glasgow?" she chuckled. "Isn't that where you're _from_?"

"Yeah, but…"

"No buts. At least two days, got it?" She flicked his nose and carefully left his grasp, heading over to her desk. "I know you get mail from around there, so don't even try to argue otherwise."

The Doctor was quiet, almost afraid, as he stood there awkwardly. "You go through my mail?"

"I don't _read_ your mail—that's illegal and wrong—but I _do_ sort through it to find the rubbish and coupons. Haven't you noticed that I get hold of the coupons and you never have anything to throw away without opening it?"

He paused and thought on that. "Oh, thanks." Attempting to think quickly, he brushed it aside and continued on. "Is there anything you want to do while we're in Scotland? I'm not a good tour guide anymore, but I can research what I can."

"Just make it good, and I don't care if we go searching for Nessie or toss cabers."

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

The airport was a crowded, miserable place, making the Doctor's first moments back in his homeland an experience he'd rather forget. Customs was a pain, he was questioned on his passport, and had to learn the difficult way that just because a security guard was ethnically Indian and spoke in the crispest Estuary accent he'd ever heard that it did not necessarily mean he appreciated being referred to as "Gilipollas". By the time everything was all said and done and he was released into the custody of his girlfriend, half the day had already been eaten up.

"I don't make it a point to drink, but since we _are_ in the home of proper whisky, I might imbibe a bit tonight if you don't mind," he growled as they hopped into the rental car. It was a tiny thing that scrunched his legs and felt more made for people Clara's height than his, but that was the only thing that was available.

"As long as we're at the hotel for the night once you start, I don't care," she said sympathetically. "Just don't come back from the bar so shitfaced you go to the wrong room and I think we can call it a deal."

"Now why would I want to snuggle up with anyone other than you?" he snarked, mood lifting considerably. "Alright, since we were wise enough to not plan anything for today in case of flight issues, we've got some time that's free before turning in for the night. Anything in particular you want to do?"

"Drive around, I think," she said. "You moved too young to have a local… that's it! Why don't you show me your old neighborhood! See if there's anyone around!"

He thought about that, attempting to come up with an answer not related to the word _yes_. "I dunno—I lived in an area occupied by a bunch of old duffers. Might've left too early for anyone to remember me. It has been four decades after all."

"Even if there's no one that does remember, can I at least see?" Clara pleaded. "The house where you grew up would be nice to visit."

"It doesn't exist anymore—torn down ages ago," the Doctor said. He turned on the car and pulled out into traffic, almost immediately screwing up and going on the wrong side of the road. "It was a nice place when my folks bought it, but a couple people let their properties go to shit and before you know it, boom, bought up and flattened to make room for the new."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied. Thinking quickly, she followed up with "Then how about we do something you've always wanted to do around here? Anything you were barred from doing before the big jump across the pond?"

"Visit punk dives, mainly," he chuckled lowly. "It's sad when you want to enjoy and appreciate something, but you have to let it pass you by."

"You? A punk?" Clara giggled hysterically. "Oh, I can see you now: a giant red quiff and a suit filled with pins and patches and all pierced up on your face—it'd look _awful_."

"Glad I stayed straight and kept to the establishment long enough to meet you then, eh?" he teased with a grin. "How about we just head over to the hotel and catch our bearings? See if there's anything good to do within walking distance of our bed?"

"Now _that_ sounds like a plan," she agreed. This was finally it; she was going to begin breaking down barriers that had been solid all throughout the season and start being a real adult with her older, surely experienced, boyfriend. The entire ride over she pictured him on his back and pleading, wanting more, begging for her to continue.

When they got to their hotel, however, after check-in and hauling luggage up to their room, there was no romantic sweeping her off her feet or tackle into the mattress. The Doctor merely sat down at the table and took out his phone, checking a tourist app he had downloaded before their connecting flight out of Schiphol. Clara stood awkwardly in the middle of their room, thoroughly confused.

"Don't you want to _do anything_?" she asked, attempting to hint with her vocal inflection. He glanced up and cocked his head to the side.

"Yeah, that's what I'm trying to figure out," he said, pointing at his phone. "Do you want to look with me so we can decide together?"

"No… I think I'm good," Clara moaned. She laid down on the bed and tried not to shout into the pillows. Twenty minutes passed and the mattress shifted, with the Doctor laying down beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist to bring her in close.

"A nap seems lovely right about now—excellent choice," he murmured in her hair. She was glad that he couldn't see her frown, although, it was nice having him wrap around her. Jetlag… yeah; it was probably just the jetlag and they'd get down to business soon enough.

* * *

Clara leaned up against the rental car, breathing in the crisp autumn breeze. After a whole summer on the border of Iowa and Illinois, drenched in her own sweat sometimes before ten in the morning, she welcomed the cool Highland air with gusto. She closed her eyes and sighed. Kids played in the field next to her, birds chirped in the distance, thunder rumbled in the clouds just beyond the hills; it was perfect.

"Fuck this stupid piece of shit Citroën. We should have gone for the Golf."

Well, nearly perfect.

Pebbles and dirt crunching beneath his feet, the Doctor approached the vehicle again with a gas can in-hand. "There's a _reason_ why I haven't seen one of these damn things in forty years! The fuel gauge doesn't work, the suspension's shoddy, _and_ it smells like someone vomited in the back seat."

"At least you got a nice stroll in the countryside," Clara mentioned. She watched as John put the extra gas in the tank with a frown.

"The clerk asked if I was Irish."

"Well, that's not so…"

" _Clara_ , I'm not Irish! You sound like that idiot Jack."

"Celts; they're both Celts."

"I've just been living overseas, not pretending I'm a leprechaun," he grumbled. Once the gas can was empty, he capped it and tossed it in the trunk of the car, having ascended far past the realm of caring, and sealed up the tank again. He turned towards Clara to talk to her when a cricket ball zoomed between them and hit the car door.

"Oops! Sorry, mister!" one of the kids shouted. He waved at them, trying to get their attention. "Can you please throw it back?"

"Go ahead, Sir ' _I got into a Double-A club on four years of baseball and a shit run_ '. Toss it back," Clara chuckled. She picked up the ball and gave it to John, who smirked in return.

The windup, the pitch, and less than a second later one of the kids dropped to the ground as the ball beamed him in the shoulder. The Doctor flicked the other children two fingers and opened the passenger door for Clara, bowing slightly at the waist.

"C'mon; Aberdeen isn't going to visit itself."

* * *

"Hurry up, you slowpoke! Afraid someone's going to laugh at your awful run?!"

The Doctor watched as Clara ran down the side of the hill, through long green grass and purple heather. A slight breeze sent ripples through the field and her hair, looking more like a shot from a movie than something he was seeing in real life, if the Doctor was truthful. The only reason he knew it was real was because he could feel the wind messing with _his hair_ as well.

"I don't frolic," he insisted loudly. There was no one for miles—just them and their awful rental car.

"You're no fun, you know that?" she pouted as he began to slowly descend the hillside.

"One of the joys of getting older," he quipped. In reality, he only wanted to tease her. The way she scrunched up her face and frowned was cute, so cute in fact that he lost his footing while watching her from afar, tumbling down the hill with as much grace and poise as one can with such things.

"Oh God, John!" Clara cried out. She ran over to him and sat him upright, holding him by the shoulder as he wobbled about. "Are you alright?!"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, trying to shake the spinning sensation from his head. He looked up at his girlfriend and their eyes locked. As he sat there, rear-end planted firmly in the dirt and personal belongings scattered amongst the heather, something in the back of his mind clicked into place and he suddenly knew.

' _She is it; she is the One_.'

Laying down, the Doctor carefully pulled Clara along so that she was atop him. He held her face and kissed her, careful not to physically encourage her too much.

"Nothing that a nice snog didn't fix, huh?" she laughed. Her hands moving down his chest, she hummed as she analyzed the possibilities. "Do you want to go out here? Where Google Earth can see us?"

"I'd rather not," he admitted, taking her hand in his. He kissed her fingertips before leaning up, sitting so that he could have one hand occupied by hers, while the other settled on the small of her back. "One day, though. I promise you that."

"I'll hold you to it, John."

* * *

It was most very clearly one of the most nerve-wracking things the Doctor had ever done. He stepped out of the rental car, Scotland now far behind him, and followed Clara as she ran up to her father and gave him a hug on the front stoop of his house. This had been his idea, one that she was more than happy to go along with, though the way his stomach was turning somersaults made him teeter on the verge of regret.

"Oh Dad, I've missed you _so much_ ," she confessed.

"I did too, dear," he replied. After they separated, Dave Oswald turned his attention to the man standing very awkwardly on his approach and held out his hand. "So you must be John. I've heard a lot about you."

"I wish I could say it's all good, but you know how Clara and I started out," the Doctor said. He shook Dave's hand and tried not to break out into a nervous sweat. His girlfriend's father was very clearly around his own age, maybe older, maybe even _younger_ depending on his genetics. "Hopefully the more recent stuff is good."

"Good enough for me not to want to call you foul names," Dave replied with a laugh. Clara closed her eyes and exhaled, making the face she wore whenever she had to count backwards from ten in an effort to not chew someone's head off.

"Dad, please give John a break," she said. "He's nervous enough as it is."

"Fair enough—how about some tea?"

Dave led his daughter and her beau into the house, heading towards the back where the kitchen was located. The Doctor nearly made it, but was distracted by the photos that hung in the hallway connecting the foyer and the kitchen. There, plain as day, were pictures of Clara during her school years, with her parents, posing with friends. Now that he had seen Dave and images of his late wife, the Doctor could clearly see how Clara was a blend of the two of them. It was scarily evident in one picture, where it was the three Oswalds together, her parents no older than she was now.

"Hey, you coming?" Clara asked, poking her head out the kitchen door. She saw the photograph he was examining and approached him, sliding her arm around his middle. "Did you know she's been gone almost half my life now?"

"Really…?" he marveled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be; I'm alright with it now. It was hard at first, and I still miss her, but I realized a long time ago that I needed to live because she no longer can't. It's made be a bit bolder in some areas, to be dreadfully honest."

"How so?"

"Getting the courage to move to America for school, for one," she smirked. "Let's go, or Dad's going to come after us while brandishing the kettle."

* * *

"Thanks for understanding me wanting to stay behind a bit longer," Clara said. She and the Doctor were in Heathrow, fresh from their flight out of Blackpool and ready to go their separate ways for the time being. "It's just, after being gone all that time, I realized I was feeling homesick."

"If this'll help cure the blues, then I'm more than ready to sacrifice a bit of time to let you recharge," he said, shrugging casually. "Just make sure to email me those notes you want to have read at the conference in a couple weeks and we'll be fine."

"Alright; don't go giving anyone their souvenirs until I get back, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear."

"…and no doing anything ridiculous while I'm gone, like trying to rewire my flat."

"In my defense, I've done electric work before and it saved your landlord from needing to call a professional for just a light switch."

"Uh-huh, _sure_ ," she said. Clara went up on her toes and wrapped her arms around the Doctor's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "One final thing."

"What's that?"

"Miss me."

He grinned at that, pulling her in close. "Without a doubt." He kissed her again, letting her hands travel where they wanted to while they committed the highly egregious social sin of public affection. It didn't matter there, in Heathrow, where couples met and split paths all the time. It wasn't every day they could both go somewhere without the risk of running into someone who knew them, yet were total strangers. Stores, restaurants, tourist attractions… nowhere was completely safe, even if they were traveling with the team. That was in America, but this was England. They weren't higher-ups in the national sport here, and it gave them a sense of relief as they said good-bye for the time being.

Many hours and more than a few time zones later, the Doctor landed in Quad City International feeling very lonely for the first time since he could remember.

* * *

Pulling up into a parking space, the Doctor hesitated before shutting off the car and getting out. The last time he had visited a store of this sort it was over thirty years ago, which certainly did not make it any better. He walked in and tried to act casual, looking at all the shiny pieces of metal and rock sitting under glass.

"Can I help you, sir?" a clerk asked. The Doctor almost jumped, but chuckled at himself in relief when he realized it was only a staff member.

"Yes, I, um, was wondering if you had anything more modest than this," he said, pointing at the case that sat between them. "It would be her first marriage, but she's not the flashy sort."

"Ah, understatement—not too many looking for that nowadays," the clerk nodded. He beckoned the Doctor over to a different case, one with plainer rings sitting inside. "Anything here catch your eye?"

Looking at the case contents, the Doctor felt almost overwhelmed at the sheer number of rings sitting there before him. He came in brimming with confidence, but now that he had the choice to make, he was starting to second-guess like it was a one-run game with the walk-off runner at-bat.

"We do offer plain bands with nothing extra, if that's what you're looking for," the clerk offered, noticing his customer's sudden indecision.

"I sort of like that one," the Doctor said, "the one with the red stones. That looks nice, though I don't know if I'd go with red."

"Those are rubies used as birth stones; there's a matching men's ring to go with it, if you're interested."

The Doctor took a long look at the rings before allowing his mouth to twitch upwards in a grin. "What's the stone for November?"

* * *

Had he not needed to be in a press conference while her plane touched down, the Doctor would have certainly been the one picking Clara up from the airport. Instead, he found himself driving over to her apartment hours after Susan had picked her up, dropped her off, and left her to her own devices. He turned his key in the lock (a gift he'd _never_ thought he'd get when she handed it to him in late September) and walked on in.

"Clara? I know you're here," he called out into the silent apartment unit. "Your motorcycle is still in the parking spot and the tracker on your phone is still turned on. I've got something for you."

"I'm in my room!" she answered. He went through the hall and found her unpacking her suitcase, sorting what needed washing and what could be put away outright. Standing in the doorway, he watched adoringly as she moved about.

"Have a fun time without me?" the Doctor asked.

"Loads, though I still wish you could have come along on some of it," Clara replied, giving him a sly smile. "So? What'd you want to give me?"

"Huh? Oh…" He reached into his coat pocket and felt the velvet box between his fingers, hesitating. ' _No, not now. The time's not right_.' Leaving the ring box in place, he took his hand out and went in a breast pocket, taking out her mail. "I think you've got something from the commissioner in there."

"Thanks," she said, stepping forward and taking the stack of letters. "Anything else? You sounded almost serious earlier."

"Must have a bit of that leftover from the conference," he lied. "Not even sure why we _had_ to have a press conference just before Thanksgiving."

"Doesn't matter—now I've got something for _you_ ," she giggled, draping her arms around his neck. She pulled him down for a kiss and scratched playfully at his scalp. Feeling him smiling against her lips and his hands cup her jaw, Clara took it as a cue to move her hands down her boyfriend's body to his rear, making him gasp as she felt him up in an effort to rile him into a long-awaited frenzy.

Only, the exact opposite effect happened: the Doctor let go and backed away slightly, looking at her warily. "What, um, sort of something is it?"

"I guess you could call it 'advanced cuddling'," she said. Clara raised her eyebrow, noticing how he was beginning to tense up. "Are you okay? You don't look too well."

"I think that maybe I need a remedial course before going to the advanced material," he replied, his ears burning red. Instead of scolding him, his girlfriend held out her hand and waited for him to take hold. He wrapped his long fingers around hers and held on tightly. "Are you angry?"

"No; sometimes a bit of bashfulness is cute. Unexpected from someone your age, but cute nonetheless." She guided him through the apartment, over to the couch in order to lay her grey stick of a boyfriend down so that she could curl up on top his torso. "It just seems a little quaint, is all."

"I'd rather be quaint than force boundaries," he replied, placing one hand gingerly on her waist and the other on her shoulder. "It just doesn't seem like the right time, is all."

"I guess I'd rather have you ready to go there," Clara sighed. She frowned as the Doctor stroked her shoulder gently, wondering when that time might be.

* * *

The party was well underway as Susan heard the sound of the front door open and more guests enter the house. She made sure her grandfather was alright and went to go check on who arrived, finding a wind-blown Doctor helping Clara out of her coat.

"Oh, there you are Clara! Uncle John!" she beamed. Susan hugged Clara first, and then waited until the Doctor was done hanging up the coat in the front hall before latching on to him. "I was wondering when you were going to get here. The weather didn't get too bad, did it?"

"It wasn't so much that the weather is bad but that the damn county hasn't plowed my street in _two days_ ," the Doctor growled. "I think I'm going to get that truck I always wanted and stick a plow on the front."

"You keep on saying that every year, no matter where you live, and you haven't gotten a truck yet," Susan laughed. She watched as he hung up his own coat and led them into the main of the house. The place was full of Gallifreyans upper-level staff, coaching and office-wise, and some of the local business owners that had helped them out over the course of the year. Very few of the players were around, but most were spending the Christmas season with their own families, which was wholly understandable.

"Look who's here," Foreman chuckled. "The power couple that's taking the league by storm! Sit, sit! I take it the county still hasn't plowed your road, John?"

"They didn't do it last winter either, so I'm thinking now's about time to act…"

"…and get that truck with the plow on the front," Foreman finished with a laugh. "I've known you long enough to read you like you're part of me. Before you got here, I was telling young Stalkingwolf here about that time when we were living in Chicago where you took Susan out to the park and then you had to carry her piggyback through the snow."

"Grandfather, I was _five_."

"Yes, and it was _adorable_ , so please don't spoil an old man's fun." He gave her a wink and then turned to the bench coach and his date, continuing the story. Susan then turned to the Doctor and Clara, asking what they wanted to drink.

She went off to the kitchen and fetched two flutes of champagne. When she came back, she found the story was done, but the Doctor and Clara were now sitting on the couch together, cuddled up so close they were almost atop one another. Susan then handed the Doctor his drink, holding back Clara's.

"Can I talk with you for a moment? I wanted to show you where the food is," she said.

"Sure thing," Clara replied. She kissed her boyfriend behind the ear before standing up and taking the drink, following Susan through the house. They entered the dining room, where there was no one but the party platters to listen in. "Okay, what's up?"

"You're the one looking snuggly—you tell me," Susan said, taking a radish from a platter and popping it in her mouth. "You engaged yet or are you waiting until you want to have kids?"

"In my experience, a lot more sex usually happens before a ring is even considered," Clara groused. She took a sip of champagne and frowned. "Do we have to talk about this _now_? Seems sort of childish…"

"How often do I get to talk to you alone?" Susan noted. "This is definitely a face-to-face conversation—nothing we want to write down in a text and certainly nothing we want to have someone listen in on half of." She waited until someone passed by the doorway and continued. "Now, tell me: are you even _considering_ getting married or…?"

"John and I may sleep over at one another's, but we are definitely far from wedding bells," Clara shrugged. "I haven't even seen him in anything less than pants and a vest, and whenever I try to cue him to push the envelope in bed he just sort of…" She gestured obtusely, waving her glass about in irritation. "I thought dating an older man would mean we'd get through all the bullshit quicker."

"Well, he hasn't been in a committed relationship since I was a baby, so you never know." Susan then heard the front door open again and bit her bottom lip, realizing she needed to go play hostess some more. "Just keep me posted, alright? Help yourself to the spread." She answered the door (the owner of Peri's Pierogi was there with some home-made wares for the table) and continued to mingle about.

A little while later she went to go check on her grandfather, almost dropping her glass of pop when she saw what was going on. Foreman was still talking, regaling tales of days long ago, completely ignoring the fact that Clara had plopped herself right in the Doctor's lap, idly running her fingers through his hair. One arm was wrapped around her waist, while he used his free hand to take food off the small plate his girlfriend was holding and _feed her_. The man she had grown up knowing to be, while polite, generally cranky and irritable, was popping grapes and tiny cubes of cheese in someone's mouth other than his own. It sent a queasy feeling through her stomach—despite wanting her surrogate uncle to be happy, it was a different thing entirely to see him act no different than a teenager with his first girlfriend. Clara kissed him on the nose, playfully snarling before taking an olive and stuffing it in his mouth.

_Now_ who was the childish one?

* * *

As far as airports went, Quad City International wasn't the worst that the Doctor had found himself waiting in. The days of dodging Hare Krishnas were far behind him, if at the price of ridiculously-heightened security. He waited in what felt like a containment tank as he waited for a very specific flight to come into the terminal. Before long he saw his tiny girlfriend walk out of the throng of people coming from the concourse. He stood in place as she walked towards him, her gait becoming quicker until she nearly jumped into his arms.

"Oh, I missed you," Clara sighed into his chest.

"It was just a conference," he chuckled. "What's going to happen when I'm on that two-and-a-half week roadtrip this season?"

"Oh, I think I'll manage somehow." She gave him a wink and they held hands as they fetched her suitcase and walked back to his car.

"Would you like to go straight home or elsewhere first?" the Doctor asked as he revved up the motor.

"I guess that would depend on where 'home' is," Clara smirked. She waited patiently as he pulled out of the parking garage and into the street before continuing, noting his silence. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you," he affirmed, glancing over his shoulder to merge onto the expressway. "Not all that sure I understand what you mean though."

"I was just wondering, since, well, we have been dating a while now, and we have to make good use of the time we have now before Spring Training starts up next month…"

The Doctor blinked and tilted his head, rather confused. "Wait, what…?"

"I know it does seem a little soon, but by the middle of the season when we have no time we'll definitely be to that point…"

"Want _what_ exactly?"

"I guess you can consider it the next step," she said. Clara glanced over at the Doctor and placed her left hand atop his right, going along as he used the gearshift. "Since we already stay over at each other's places a lot, I was wondering if you would consider having me move into the house with you and we can start doing, you know, couple things, like splitting bills and owning a cat and stuff like that."

"Ooooh no… no way that's happening," the Doctor replied, nervously laughing off the notion. "Plenty of things need to happen before we consider that."

"Like **_what_** , John?" she snapped. "It's not like we're kids fresh out of secondary school—you've been divorced for over thirty years! I laid off during the season because we, frankly, were sort of busy making sure the Foremans' venture didn't tank right out of the gate, but ever since the playoffs began and we were set free, I've been wondering when we're going to get this relationship going!"

"What do you mean ' _get this relationship going_ '?!" he scoffed. "We have a relationship and it's perfectly fine!"

"We haven't even had sex yet, _at all_. Usually adult relationships involve things like sex and living—"

"So it's about the sex?! You're like every other horny young person and want to make things about sex?!"

"It's about the _relationship_ —listen to me!"

Grunting crossly, the Doctor pulled off onto the shoulder and came to a complete stop halfway in a snowbank. Once the hazard lights were on, he glared at the woman sitting next to him. "Alright: I'm listening."

"Since when are you this defensive? It's like you're tip-toeing around something!"

"I'm not tip-toeing!"

"Then what are you so nervous about?!"

"It's not that simple, Clara…"

"Take me back to my flat," she demanded, sitting with her back straight against the seat. She folded her arms across her chest and set her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the Doctor. "You obviously are not listening."

"Same goes both ways," he grumbled, putting the car back into gear and driving off. " _Apartment_."

"Excuse me?" she gasped.

"You're in America and we have apartments here. Apartments and cookies and high schools and fucking cell phones; get used to it, _Your Highness_."

"You think you're so lofty thanks to how long you've been here," Clara hissed. "You know all the slang and believe that if you just swear loud enough or crook your finger that people will do as you instruct and everything will be _fine_."

"That's because it usually does work like that, yeah," he grumbled.

The entire rest of the drive was spent in silence. Both driver and passenger refused to look one another in the eye, lest their argument start up again. The car was barely shifted into park in the apartment parking lot when Clara opened her door and slammed it shut, repeating the motion with the back door in order to get her suitcase.

"Good- _bye_ ," she snarled through the glass. The Doctor's response was to squeal the tires of his car loudly before driving away. He sped the entire way home, going so far as to cut a yellow light too close and ran through as it turned red.

Dirt in his driveway kicked up in a cloud as he skid the car to a stop in a hard break. He slammed both the car door and front door behind him and stormed up the stairs to his bedroom so that he could fling himself face-down on his bed. After shouting into the mattress, the Doctor rolled over and jammed his eyes shut, hissing in pain.

"I can't fucking win," he told his ceiling. "I try to do it right and things _still_ fuck up. Why can't she see that I'm trying to do things in-order? That I'm trying to _respect_ her?" He dug in his coat pocket and plucked the ring box and stared at it in the afternoon light. Curling his lip into a sneer, he tossed it to the side, hitting the wall of his bedroom with a loud _thunk_.

Slowly, the Doctor's face turned from one of disgust to one of intense sadness. He rolled over on his bed, which felt intensely much-too-large now for just him, and retrieved both ring and box from the floor. Putting the ring back in its satin enclosure, he closed the box and held it to his chest.

"I want to get it _right_ this time," he murmured. "Why is that so difficult?" He glared at the wall that now had a small dent in it, marring the otherwise pristine white paint. The past few decades he had been perfectly fine with a casual date here and there, but now… now being without his girlfriend _hurt_ , and the concept of losing her forever terrified him. It was as big a fear as cocking up the proposal had been, though now "cocking up" more meant driving her too far away for the big question to even happen.

The Doctor sat up and shed his coat and hoodie, leaving only the hole-ridden sweater and white t-shit beneath it. He dug through his pants pocket and took out his phone. Swiping through, he went to the text contact for Clara—the last thing she had sent him were emojis of hearts and a kissing face from before she got on her flight. The keys were right there, not very far from his knobby thumbs, coaxing him into contacting her.

' _Meeting Wed?_ ' he wrote, adding a baseball emoji at the end. Mulling it over, he added a ' _can be at TARDIS_ ' before hitting send. Minutes began to crawl by while he awaited the reply.

' _New assistant. No need._ '

He paused and considered his options. ' _Dinner Wed?_ '

' _I need space._ '

Gently tossing the phone to the end of the bed, the Doctor exhaled and looked at the velvet box again, examining it carefully as he held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "What mess did you get yourself into _now_ , James? You can't run away from this one. Too old, too sour, too involved. You are an idiot."


	3. Chapter 3

Jimmy Stalkingwolf frowned when he found his name in the list of roommates in the Quad City Gallifreyans block of the hotel. He had boarded the plane down to Florida hoping that he'd have a different rooming partner than last year, considering his was now smitten with one of their bosses, of all people, but there, plain as day, was "Smith, John; manager; Stalkingwolf, Jimmy; bench coach".

Spring Training was how many weeks again?

He trudged his way up to the room and swiped his keycard to get in. Sitting there on one of the beds was the Doctor, who seemed lost in thought while staring at something in his hands. As soon as he snapped back to Earth, he stuffed whatever it was in his pocket and scowled at the intruder.

"About time you got here," he grumbled. "Your flight get delayed or something?"

"Twice—thanks for sparing me the theatrics."

"Only so many allotted fucks to give in one day, and can't use them all up on you." The Doctor then went quiet, his eyes unfocused towards the carpet at his feet. "You and Cassie, you're a thing, yeah?"

"I guess you can say that. Why do you ask?" Jimmy hefted his suitcase onto the empty bed and began to unpack. It was best to pretend nothing was wrong when the Doctor went all weird like this.

"I don't know… just… forget I asked." He brusquely stood and grabbed a backpack, which he rested on one shoulder. "Coaches' meeting at five—Seminole Room—have some interesting shit to go over thanks to Mam's off-season ventures." He stormed out of the room without allowing his bench coach to reply, hiding behind his usual grouchy self.

* * *

The conference room could only be described as _tense_.

Jimmy noticed as soon as he walked into the room. All the other coaches were there, as well as their head of medical staff and the owners. It seemed like it was almost a normal meeting, with exception of the fact that the Doctor and Clara appeared like they were ready to kill one another. It seemed off to him, that two people that were able to balance the dichotomy of working with their partner the latter half of last season so well would now be at one another's throats. The rest of the staff tiptoed through the meeting with care, not making mention of the severe regression in the two's relationship. It wasn't until they were back in their room for the night did Jimmy even think about asking what was the matter, figuring that his roommate landing face-down on his bed was a sign that things were safe.

"Okay Doc, what's going on?" he asked, sitting on his own bed. "You and Miss Oswald are two words away from breaking out into a shouting match. When I saw the two of you at Christmas, you were so cute you were gross."

"Don't call things cute—it doesn't suit you," the Doctor muttered into the bedspread.

"Then what happened? There's no way this is some weird British courting ritual."

Grousing inwardly, the manager rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, spread-eagle on the bed. "Clara asked to move in back in January, since it was the off-season and we had the time, and I haven't answered her."

"Is that it?" Jimmy blinked in bafflement. "I would have thought you'd have done that already, since you're sleeping together and all…" The Doctor turned his head and gave him a rough glare. "Wait: you're _not_?! I thought she stayed over at your place all the time!"

"We share a bed, but that's as close as it gets," he replied. "That's a big step—both of those things are—and it scares me. I fucked it up before and I don't want to fuck it up again."

"Doc, you were younger than me…"

"Yeah, and now I'm old enough to where I should know better."

"You're beating yourself up. Stop it," Jimmy said. It felt very, _very_ weird that he was giving a man nearly thirty years his elder life advice, a normally scary and shouty man at that, but he knew that he was going to have to literally take one for the team if this season was going to get off on even remotely the right foot. "Okay, so she wants to move in. Are you worried that she'll push the issue on anything once she's there?"

"She doesn't see it, but it'd ruin her," the Doctor replied. "We're unique in the League, probably unique in any sporting league, and if there are _already_ rumors about us shagging one another on the side to get what we want, what will it be like when we actually _do_ make that step? Either step? I don't know if I can weigh her down like that."

"It's ultimately her choice, and I don't think she sees it as you 'weighing her down'. You're both expats working in a foreign sport, and are actually _compatible_ with your bickering. If anything I think the two of you hold one another up." Jimmy shrugged, trying to make everything seem as casual and natural as possible. "I don't see anything wrong with it."

The Doctor frowned, narrowing his stare at the textured ceiling paint. "I was a shitty husband and I'd make an even worse father. That's what she'd want, I _know_ it is, and… fuck. I can barely handle it when guys on the team bring their kids to the clubhouse and this is a woman who got her fucking _degree_ in early childhood development. Professional women can't afford to be bogged down by being legally-bonded to an old man who knocks her up every couple years while working in the basement of her office." He shifted to his side, back to Jimmy, and curled up to face the wall. "I should give up."

"I don't know if giving up is the correct way to do it, but you and Miss Oswald have to put this tiff behind you, and _fast_. You're both on contract for long enough to make this a _crippling feud_ for more than just the two of you." Jimmy watched as the Doctor pulled something from his pocket and slammed it down on the bed behind him—a dark velvet box that was rubbed smooth around the edges and along the top and bottom. He picked it up and looked inside; there, set in a ring of white gold, was a modest diamond flanked on either side by two yellow gems. "How… how long have you had this?"

"Before Thanksgiving."

"That was only four months!" Jimmy gasped. "You bought a ring after dating for four months?!"

"It's because she's the _One_ ," the Doctor explained. He curled up slightly, his body tensing at the thought. "I realized it when we were on vacation—she made it worth going, everything else be damned. There's something about this feeling that makes me want to do _right_ by her; marriage and the whole kit and caboodle that comes with it."

"…and you haven't given it to her yet? How come?"

"I don't know," the Doctor replied quietly. "I don't know if I can still work with her professionally if she's wearing that ring, living in my house, carrying my child. The longer I put it off, the less sure I am. I can barely handle the anxiety involved with her being next to me at night a day or two out of the week. Every day? I don't know."

Jimmy closed the box and set it back down on the bed. "It's been a while since you started fighting, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Then suck it up and at least apologize. Get back to the point where you're casually kissing one another in the clubhouse and _then_ have your goddamn midlife crisis." He stood and walked over to the door, grabbing his keycard on the way. "I'm going to the Cuban place in town. You coming?"

"No; their poor excuse for a burger got me sick last year."

"It was that cheap off-brand beer and you know it." He glanced back and shook his head before leaving. With any luck the Doctor and Miss Oswald would figure things out before the season began, but as far as Jimmy was concerned, he wasn't about to let their spat come in the way of him and his job (or the best fritas in Florida).

* * *

The TARDIS was nearly devoid of life as the Doctor walked through it early in the morning, navigating the corridors quickly and silently. He went up to the offices, swiping his security card to get through, and dodged coming within the sight of both McCrimmon and Harkness as he went over to Clara's office. What he needed to discuss with her was the last thing either the head of social media _or_ the head of marketing needed to hear. She had to of been in—her motorcycle was there in her parking spot—and he needed to get it out now before the season began later that week.

"Clara…?" he softly called out, knocking on her door.

"Make it quick," she replied. The Doctor opened it to find that she was already at her computer, typing away and making quick glances over at some hand-written notes. He walked in and stopped about halfway through.

"We need to call a truce," he said.

Clara stopped typing and glared at him, her normally-large eyes narrowing. This was the face she used for business, for transactions, the one that made her who she was and showed no bluff. "Terms?"

"Can't we just promise we'll do our best to not fight while we're at work?" the Doctor asked. "We officially open tomorrow, and if Spring Training is any indication of what our relationship has turned into, then it's going to be hell during the season if we don't put this aside."

"The unfortunate side of dating where one works," she deadpanned. "Just don't bother me and I won't bother you. We are both more than capable of doing our jobs on our own."

"Then… the new assistant is working out?"

"Dorothy? She's working out just fine."

"Good, I'm glad." He shifted in place, not sure how to continue. "So… I'll see you around?"

"Probably."

"Okay." With that he went back out the office door, closing it behind him.

* * *

Waking up with a start, Clara felt around in her bed. Her skin was clammy and she felt sick to her stomach.

' _Did I…?_ ' she wondered. A pause and a few breaths later and she confirmed it: yes, it was just a dream, all a dream.

Getting up, she glanced at her bedside clock. One-twenty-six in the morning. She put her robe and slippers on and shuffled over towards the kitchen. Putting on some water to boil, Clara sat down and thought about her dream. In it, she was sitting in her private booth in the TARDIS, quietly taking notes as she watched the game take place on the field below. Sometimes she dreamt about work, so it had been nothing out of the ordinary at first, but during the fifth inning everything took a turn for the worst.

The ball had taken a bad bounce as it was hit towards the shortstop. He just barely caught it, throwing it towards first as he fell towards the dirt. The first baseman tried to catch it, but it was just out of his reach, and the rogue ball bounced into the dugout. That sort of thing happened all the time, so no one was _too_ worried, until Jimmy the bench coach zoomed up the steps to field level and called time out.

Putting the tea bag in the mug and pouring water over it, Clara shuddered to recall what had happened. It was just a dream, but the Doctor had been hit in the head by the ball and seriously hurt. Sure she was cross with him, but she couldn't wish _harm_ upon him. The Doctor… she was hoping she hadn't destroyed any further opportunity to further their relationship.

She shook her head and dunked the tea bag by the string—no. _He_ was the one who was stringing her along, avoiding things that none of her other adult boyfriends had shied away from, so it was going to have to be _him_ worrying about ruined chances and apologies. Granted she hadn't had time for too many other adult relationships, but the ones she had been through were all rather forthright. The Doctor always seemed to be avoiding something; things about himself, about his family, about too many things to count anymore. Clara knew she couldn't be with a man like that, and for that reason she was not budging. He needed to fess up whether he liked it or not. A simple apology wasn't going to fix this, because apologies were very easily empty words.

Clara took her tea back with her to her room and read a little more in _Pride and Prejudice_ , noting how slow her current read-though was going. Work was taking up more time than she expected this season, and they weren't even that far in. It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

"Smith, what on Earth did you do?" Jack asked, waltzing right into the Doctor's office and sitting down in a chair. "I thought that maybe the two of you were having a lover's spat or something else that could be solved by a few days apart and some rough make-up sex, but clearly that is not it."

"Go away, Harkness," the Doctor said, voice monotone. He didn't even look away from the computer screen as he wrote out an email.

"All I know is that it's two weeks into the season and the team has a GM and manager that won't speak to one another despite almost being drunk enough for a public fuck at Christmas. The Foremans don't know, Jaime doesn't know, your coaching staff doesn't know, I don't know… hell, not even any of the players have picked up on anything."

"We're _fighting_ , alright?" the Doctor snapped. He exhaled as he caught himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "All couples fight; it's nothing unusual."

"Considering this fight's longer than Little Jack, something tells me you have to get going on fixing it."

"Please don't compare my relationship issues to your penis ever again," he growled. "We'll get over it, I know we will. It just needs time."

"Time is not exactly a commodity we've got plenty of," Jack warned him. "Clock's a-ticking, and if you don't hurry up, I'll put the two of you on one of those morning radio shows where they see whether a guy sends roses to his wife or mistress."

"How would _that_ solve our problem?" the Doctor scoffed. "If anything, that would only make _both_ Clara and me angry with you."

"Yeah, but she'd still get a dozen free roses out of the deal."

"Jack? Please go away before I start screaming at you. I really don't like screaming at you—it makes me risk losing my voice mid-game and what's a ninth-inning bollocking face without a bollocking to go with it?"

"Eh, I'll take it," the marketing guru shrugged. He stood up and exited the office, winking at one of the rookies on his way out.

* * *

Knocking on the office door, Susan double-checked all the envelopes she had in her hand before entering. Clara was sitting at her desk, papers spread out before her as she attempted to analyze the figures for potential prospects that were still in high school and college ball. She glanced up and saw the other woman enter.

"Aren't you a bit early on that?" Susan asked. "The draft isn't for another month."

"I don't have the years in recruiting and scouting that other general managers have," Clara responded. "I asked Dorothy what the general trend was when it came to how picks were made and I almost couldn't get her to shut up about scouting."

"Well, that is how things are going, from what I've heard," Susan shrugged. She then held out the pile of envelopes and handed them to Clara. "These are for you; got shoved in between some of mine."

"Oh, thanks," she said. After putting them down on her chair, Clara noticed that Susan was not leaving. "What's going on?"

"As president and CEO of this ball club, I feel it's my duty to inform you that you're depressed."

"Oh?" Clara deadpanned, going back to work. "How can you tell?"

"You don't eat as much, you _avoid_ _things_ , and you look _dreadful_."

"That's not true—I look perfectly fine…"

"No Clara, you don't," Susan insisted. "You're going to need to do something to get this out of your funk, or I'm going to have to petition for someone who can actually do their work without letting their personal life get in the way." An intern knocked on the door and delivered a new set of printouts, taking Clara's recycling along with him. Once he was out of earshot, Susan continued. " _Do something_ , whether it's break it off fully and move on, or make up. I don't care if you have to be the adult in the situation."

"Susan, I'm doing _fine_ …"

"Don't lie." Susan then straightened some of the papers on the desk, exhaling heavily. "Now this is me as a friend: talk it out or you're never going to get over it as long as the both of you work here. Considering we've got no desire to fire anyone, and there aren't any openings in other clubs, there's a really short list of things you can do at this point."

"I feel so _used_ though," Clara groaned.

"…and I know John—he's had a couple relationships that were in-the-moment, a couple that only lasted as long as it was useful, but he doesn't _use_ anyone, not without their consent, anyway. Talk to him."

"I don't _want_ to talk to him."

"Then I don't know what to tell you." Susan turned around and began to walk out of the room. "Get it done before the draft, okay? Figure out something."

"Okay—I'll try."

"Thanks."

* * *

The smooth concrete hallway was unlit and quiet. The Doctor leaned on the wall next to an open door, knowing exactly who it was that was inside. Clara was sitting in her private suite, watching the practice that was going on below, carefully taking notes on the players. He had noticed her up there while talking with the batting coach, and had excused himself with a pretend phone call in order to come up. Grabbing hold of the ring box in his pocket, he fiddled with it as he gathered courage to finally turn the corner and stand in the suite doorway.

' _Now or never._ '

"Clara? Can we talk?"

"Go away," she snapped. Apparently, she had been expecting him, due to the fact she didn't even flinch.

"Listen, Clara, I'm sorry. I'm sorry and you need to know that."

"Now I know. Leave now, please and thank you. All I want to do is watch practice in peace."

"There's something I need to tell you though," he said, voice low and quiet.

"There's _nothing_ I want to hear from you right now, John."

" _James_ ," he corrected. She looked back at him, her face a mixture of confusion and irritation, and saw him softly close the door behind him. He sat down in the chair next to her, folding his hands and resting them on the counter before turning his head to look at her. "I'm _John Smith_ for all legal intents and purposes, and it's who I've been for the past forty years, but if I ever need a birth certificate—my _real_ birth certificate—then I'm _James Alistair Bowman_. Not even the Foremans know that."

"How come?" Clara wondered cautiously. The Doctor shrugged and looked down on the field where the players were practicing.

"I came from a large family; old-fashioned, medical, a bit elitist, and cripplingly overachieving," he explained somberly. "As each of my elder brothers became specialists and got accolades, the shadow I lived in grew bigger and bigger. Being the youngest, it was ' _Jem is going to outstrip them all_ ' and ' _Jem stop sounding like you were dredged up from the riverbank_ ' and ' _Jem why aren't your scores perfect? They need to be perfect if you're going to be top of your class_ '. I was so sick of it, _physically_ sick of it, that at fifteen I withdrew my entire savings account, which was enough for a one-way plane ticket and about a week's worth of food."

"…wait, you _ran away_?" she asked, her brow furrowing as she processed the idea. "I thought something happened where you couldn't live with your parents, not…" She couldn't verbalize the remainder of her thoughts, the very concept mind-boggling.

"You're not wrong, but it wasn't a matter of giving me up either," he said. "When I got to New York I lied about my age and got a job. It wasn't glamourous: I smelled semi-permanently of hot dogs and fries, but it afforded me a weekly rate at a hotel and enough food to not go hungry. That was when Foreman found me, showing off my pitching arm to some of my coworkers during break."

"He was a scout back then, yeah?"

"Yeah. He weaseled my real age and situation out of me and by the end of the summer I was staying at his place with him and his daughter, Barbara." His gaze became far-away as he remembered what had happened so long ago now the events were beginning to fade. "Foreman fudged something somewhere and suddenly I had a resident alien card and a new birth certificate and I was attending high school in Queens as a stipulation to live rent-free. Barbara doted on me, treated me like the little brother she never had, and for the first time I could remember, I was allowed to figure out _who_ I was instead of how I would fit into the mold designated for me."

"Did they ever know what happened to you? Your parents and brothers?" she questioned nervously.

"Yeah, eventually," he admitted. "I ran into the brother closest to me in age in Florida about eight years down the line—he was there for a conference and I was there for Spring Training. He tried to get me to come back, but I said no; not until I found what I wanted in life first. Sent things back for my nieces and nephews, though all but the eldest knows me as just a photo my brother snapped in the diner and mysterious packages that come every once in a while for them or _their_ kids. My argument isn't with them, which is why once I could afford to send things, I made sure they knew I was on their side, even if I wasn't on their parents' or grandparents'."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Clara asked. "We barely talk for months and all of a sudden you spill all this on me? It's a bit intense, don't you think?"

"That is because my fiancée should know about the skeleton I keep buried deep in the basement before anyone else," the Doctor replied. He turned towards her and slid off the chair, going down on one knee as he took the ring box out of his jacket pocket. Opening it, he held it out towards Clara and gazed steadily into her eyes. "Please… don't even argue…. a yes or no will do."

Eyes going wide, she gasped as she took the beaten box in-hand. "Oh my gosh… when did you get this…?! It's beautiful!"

"When you stayed behind to visit more with your dad and old mates, I took the opportunity to do some shopping," he explained. "I've been trying to figure out the right time to ask, but considering what we've been going through the past few months… I just don't know what time is the right one now."

"You've had this for _that long_?" she breathed. He nodded in reply. "So all this time when I've been cross at you for leading me along, feeling _used_ … it was because of this? You wanted to propose first?"

"I want to _marry you_ first," he clarified. "There are _some_ parts of my family's old-fashioned ways that stuck with me all these years and I'm not ashamed of it." He paused, looking at her hopefully. "Is that… okay?"

"You should have told me from the start, you idiot," she chuckled. Clara carefully put the box back in his grasp and closed his fingers around it. "I will."

Unable to vocalize anything, the Doctor took the ring from the box and slipped it on her left hand. He stared in disbelief at Clara's hand momentarily for pulling her down for a kiss. Partway through, the knee he was resting on began to wobble, and he landed on his rear end on the floor. She then giggled slightly and joined him, sitting on the floor underneath the table and holding one another tight.

"How about I start later tonight?" she said.

He leaned his head back and stared at her. "I'm sorry?"

" _Packing_. I can begin packing my things tonight and then I can move in little by little. If I start now, I should be ready to move the last of it by…"

"…the All-Star Break," he finished. "Do you have a date in mind?"

"October—early October—so that the season can end and we won't have anything to worry about a thing."

"…but what if we get to the playoffs?" he teased. "Can't do anything until _November_ if that's the case."

"No; then we'll just have more than one reason to celebrate." She closed her eyes and let out a little laugh, resting her head on his shoulder. "How is it that two fully-grown adults can act like such kids?"

"Now we know better," the Doctor said. He kissed the top of Clara's head and sighed happily. "Wow… I have a fiancée. I didn't think I'd ever have a fiancée again."

"…and before long, you'll be _married_ again," she grinned. "How do you feel about _that_?"

"Really good, Clara. Really, _really_ good."

* * *

The last home game for the Quad City Gallifreyans was a Sunday, the only night game they played on a Sunday all season long. While the players and other coaches were sleeping in and the staff taking an extra-long morning, the Doctor and Clara were standing at home plate while a minister bound them in matrimony, making their crowd of three cry in an overabundance of joy. A rather jet-lagged Dave Oswald was then almost immediately taken on a grand tour of the TARDIS by Ben and Susan Foreman, making it so that the newlyweds could duck into the clubhouse and shut the blinds on the office door before testing the sturdiness of the Doctor's chair. There would be no time or energy later that night, they argued later on to a horrified team without disclosing the location of their marriage's consummation, and almost immediately the clubhouse smelled rather strongly of hand sanitizer and other various disinfectants as the athletes attempted to put their minds at-ease.

The game that night was dropped as a loss; neither team would get to the playoffs and therefore the atmosphere was generally one of fun and excitement despite the final score. The season had been an overall success and everyone was ready to celebrate what was to be an extended lull in activity until the following February. The time ahead was generally seen as a vaguely-working vacation for much of the upper-level staff; that is until Clara nearly skipped out of the bathroom on her way to bed one cold night in November. She slid into bed, pressed her chest to her husband's back, and wrapped her arms around him as she giggled the news into his hair: she was pregnant, so said the test kit that was still sitting on the sink. Their overzealous wedding day had been the only time either could remember where they had forgone the "safe" part of sex and now they had reason to clear out the spare room and redecorate at last.

Jack Harkness may or may not have had a conniption via social media the following month when Clara posted the official announcement as their Christmas greeting over Facebook. "Stop ruining the image I'm cultivating," or something like that. No one really knew what he said thanks to what looked like frustrated key-smashing. Jamie McCrimmon simply shrugged and shared it on the official Gallifreyans' page and suddenly the whole fanbase knew what was _really_ going on between their manager and GM.

Late that following June, almost into July, the newest member of the Gallifreyans' "staff" was born. Alba Jemma Smith-Oswald was a silly, bouncy child who came home to a nursery full of baseball-themed décor and a promise from her already-doting father that although she was going to grow up in the sport, she didn't have to be doomed to find a place for herself within it. Despite this, by the end of the season, she was riding along in a papoose wherever her father went—in the clubhouse, the dugout, the offices—to keep her out of her mother's hair and yet close by a parent at all times. She became the "morale coach", as the Doctor put it, and giggled during bollockings and attempted to flail through arguments with umpires. Wherever he went, she went as well, and chances are if she wasn't strapped to his chest, she was rolling around in her playpen in his office. A less-used pen also sat in Clara's office, though that was mainly reserved for when the Gallifreyans' manager was weight training with his team so that his daughter didn't literally break his back.

The Quad City Gallifreyans were never exactly known as being a conventional club for Major League Baseball, but as far as they themselves were concerned, everything was looking great.

* * *

While the park was not _packed_ , per say, there wasn't much room, even on the grassy slope surrounding the outfield. Not all of the crowd was there for the opposition, which was good, and it led to less people being confused than normal when the manager marched out to the mound, papoose and all.

"Kanzaka, we go through this at least four times a year," he growled, trying to keep his cool. First game of Spring Training and he didn't want to screw things up quite yet. "What in the hell was that?"

"I… I tried for an Eephus…?"

"…and what did you pitch instead?"

"The easiest-to-hit ball in the history of baseball," the pitcher acknowledged. The baby attached to her father's chest wiggled and babbled, struggling against the padded fiberglass of her surroundings. She smacked her head, luckily protected by the tiny batting helmet she wore, and kept on going.

"That's right Alba—Kanzaka's a right pudding-brain," the Doctor said. "Now get your act together, or it's A-ball for you. _A-ball_."

"Hey! Smith! Get that kid off the field!" shouted the opposing manager. Turning slightly, the Doctor gave the other man a sharp glare and resisted shooting him two fingers. It may have been Spring Training, but it was still televised and there were plenty of people in the stands.

"She's uniformed and not going anywhere without her dad," he barked. "My daughter is an essential member of the team; she's under fourteen but directly supervised, ergo, she can stay."

"Bullshit!"

"You watch your language, dickhead!"

"What the fuck did you just call me?!"

The Doctor curled his lip into a sneer and turned back around to his pitcher, who was now beginning to think assignment was a safe option. He and the catcher both took a step back when the opposing manager stomped up to the papoose-laden man and spun him back around.

"I asked ' _what the fuck did you just call me_ ', unless that baby makes you deaf as well as rude."

"And I told you to watch your goddamned language, because it's bad enough my princess's first concrete memory might be of some man's cock hanging out in the clubhouse; don't want her first words to be any of the shit you fuckers sling."

"Those are some pretty bold-ass words for the one with a fucking _girl_ strapped to his chest."

By now the second base umpire, a young man who was green in the league and not wanting to mangle his first game, had walked on over to the mound to figure out what he could do to break up the disagreement. "Guys? We have a game to play here. Mind saving it for after the score's final?"

"Mind telling him that we're out of the Dark Ages and girls are allowed to be in baseball?" the Doctor asked. "For once I didn't start this one."

"Get that kid a babysitter! That's what _normal people_ do!"

"I'm a Gallifreyan; all bets are off."

"Listen," the umpire explained, trying to stay calm. "There is a special provision from the commissioner, breaking any terms of which will result in very steep fines for the Smith-Oswalds. Just let it go."

"I wouldn't put up with any of this bullshit if this was going on in my league," the opposing manager snarled. He backed down, adding "Hire a fucking nanny, Smith!" as he retreated back to his dugout.

"It's _Smith-Oswald_!" the Doctor shouted in reply. He then turned to the umpire and sighed. "Thanks for backing me up; I guess now that it doesn't seem like a novelty gimmick, they're less tolerant."

"Just watch it, okay?" the umpire said. He then went back towards his base, allowing the manager to return to what he came up to the mound to do.

"Alright Kanzaka: what face am I wearing?"

"That's, um…" The pitcher hesitated as Alba stared at him with her wide eyes and half a drool-covered fist in her mouth. "Your bollocking face?"

"Very good."


End file.
